Gaslight: The Invisible Killer

Journeying from London to Brighton for a well deserved holiday, Rhiannon Moore stared out the open window with interest as the train chugged up an embankment to give her a splendid view of the Downs, and then sloped past green landscape and into a deep cutting, through a long, dark tunnel before speeding into brightest daylight again.

The rhythmic swaying made her sleepy. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her head drooped against the back of the cushioned seat. For a time, she slept until a sudden commotion woke her. She blinked, still groggy but rousing fast.

“What is it?” she asked. “And why does it smell like something’s burning?”

Her partner, Lady Evangeline St. Claire, folded the newspaper she had been reading. “I do not know, but I shall certainly find out.”

As she rose from her seat, the train made an unexpected jolt that nearly threw her to the floor. Rhiannon’s startled cry was drowned out by the grating, metallic squeal of brakes and the chuffing of the engine. A great cloud of steam and black smoke roiled past, a hail of black cinders flew into the carriage through the open window, and the train came to a halt that only made her stomach lurch a little.

Lina pulled herself upright. “I am quite certain that someone has engaged the communication cord,” she said, straightening her hat and spending a moment shaking out her rumpled blue wool skirts . She leaned through the window. Apparently spotting someone after a few minutes, she called, “You, there! Why have we stopped?”

A uniformed guard came alongside the carriage to speak to her. “There’s a lady been killed, madame, but you’re not to worry,” he said, taking on an air of importance. “There’s a doctor seeing to the matter. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

“Did the poor creature hurl herself onto the tracks?” Lina asked.

Behind her, Rhiannon crowded as closely as she dared, the better to hear the guard speak. Suicides were not common, but not unknown, either, though according to the newspapers, unfortunate women were more likely to plunge off bridges than onto train tracks. Or the London Monument, she thought grimly, recalling a piece of doggerel verse on the infamous suicide of Margaret Moyes some fifty years ago:

“From strangers oh! What awful shrieks.
When she let go her hold,
Like lightning she descended.
T’was dreadful to behold;
With a heavy crash upon the rails,
The shock was most severe,
Which cut off her arm and it was found,
Near the centre of the square.”

She wondered what had driven the victim to self-destruction.

“No, no, the poor lady was killed,” the guard said. “Murdered. All over gore, she is, positively weltering in it, her head shattered like an egg. But there’s no need to fret, ma’am, as I’m sure the man who done it will be caught, and you’re in no danger whatsoever—”

“Where did this alleged murder take place?” Lina interrupted.

“In the Number Two first class carriage.”

“You will take me there at once.”

He gaped as Lina pushed the door open, almost toppling him over. Gathering her skirts in one hand, she went down the steps and began picking her way along the ground. Rhiannon followed, taking the guard’s automatically extended arm to ease her way down.

“Wait!” he called, hurrying after Lina once Rhiannon had reached the ground. “You can’t … I mean to say, you mustn’t … I cannot allow you to …”

Lina drew herself up to her not inconsiderable height. The top of the man’s head came just under her chin. Staring at him down the length of her nose, she gave him a distinctly chilly look and said, “It is a matter of supreme indifference to me what you will and will not permit, sir. Where is the Number Two first-class carriage?”

Without another word, the guard jabbed a thumb forward. Rhiannon did not blame him for crumbling in the face of Lina’s adamantine will.

“Thank you.” Lina turned away from him. “Let us hurry, my dear,” she said to Rhiannon, “before the railroad employees destroy the scene of our crime.”

Rhiannon stuck to Lina’s heels, careful not to trip over the steel rails, and using her folded parasol like a cane to steady her progress. Like her partner, she ignored the curious stares of other passengers and train personnel who had gathered outside to gawk. The weight of stares did not bother her anymore. As irresistibly as iron filings to a magnet, the beautiful, intelligent, confident Lina attracted attention wherever she went.

Arriving at the Number Two first-class carriage, Lina addressed the out-of-breath station master who seemed to be in charge.

“I understand a murder has been committed,” she said.

“Madame, I must ask you to return to your seat immediately,” he said after giving her the barest impatient glance.

Lina lowered her voice, forcing him to lean closer. “I have many contacts at Scotland Yard, my good sir. I see your station boasts a telegraph.” She indicated the bucolic building that serviced the nearby village. Wickworth, Rhiannon read on the sign. “I can easily send a message to Inspector Valentine or one of his fellow detectives.”

“Scotland Yard will not be necessary,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “The criminal will be apprehended by our local constabulary.”

“Indeed.” Lina arched her brow. “I hope you will succeed.”

“Yes, yes, and now will you … I say, madame, I insist you not go in there!”

Too late, Rhiannon thought. Lina had already pushed past him, darted up the steps, and entered the first-class carriage. She did not join her, though she hovered by the door as the station master huffed and puffed as vehemently as the train’s engine.

As the guard had told them, the carriage was awash in red: splashes of fresh blood on the wall, an appalling amount pooled on the floor, and streaks on the inside of the outer door below the open window as well as on the window frame. The victim, a woman, wore a grey, watered silk dress with a lace yoke, the front of the fabric surprisingly free of blood save a few spots and a larger stain on the left side of her collar. Impossible to tell her age or the color of her hair since a large brimmed hat covered her face.

Rhiannon tried to breathe shallowly. Beside her, the station master seemed torn between attempting to snatch Lina bodily out of the carriage and risking a scene, or simply ignoring her in the hope that she would satisfy her ghoulish curiosity and go away.

Heedless of the way her skirts trailed in the blood, Lina bent over to examine the victim’s head, lifting up the floppy hat to reveal a young, attractive brunette woman, her brown eyes fixed open in death.

“A large, penetrating wound to the side of her head,” Lina reported. “See, my dear, here is brain matter, and here are skull fragments. The killer struck and withdrew his instrument very quickly, and the victim collapsed. What could have caused such a wound?” she muttered.

“I thought perhaps a pickaxe,” said a man who had come to stand next to Rhiannon. “Dr. Flavell, madame. I was summoned to help the victim, but alas, life had already fled.”

Lina’s glance held a little more respect. “Why do you theorize a pickaxe?”

“Because of the tapering nature of the wound, which I discovered when I probed her skull. Whatever caused the injury has a sharp point that becomes wider along its length.”

“And we are searching the third-class carriages now,” the station master exclaimed, “for a workman carrying such a tool.”

A shout at the other end of the line made him assume a triumphant expression. A constable appeared, his hat askew on his head, pushing a prisoner ahead of him. The man in handcuffs was dressed roughly, unshaven, and somewhat villainous in appearance. He also peppered the air with curses. Rhiannon decided to memorize some of the more colorful ones.

“He’s a stonemason, sir,” the constable said to the station master. “He has a bag of tools in his possession.”

“Of course I have tools, you bloody idjit! It’s my trade, ain’t it?” the man said loudly, struggling in the constable’s iron grip.

“Why did you kill this woman?” the station master demanded.

The man glanced inside the blood soaked carriage. He trembled. His mouth worked but no sound came out, and then his eyes rolled back to show the whites and he collapsed in a faint. The station master hurried to help the constable hold him up.

Snorting at the farce, Lina stood and began to leave the carriage when she suddenly stopped, bent, and picked up something from the floor, concealing it in the palm of her hand. Dr. Flavell looked interested when she climbed down the steps and showed it to him.

Rhiannon could not see what the object was, nor could she overhear Lina and Flavell’s muted conversation. She waited impatiently until Flavell hurried away and Lina joined her.

“What did you find?” she asked.

“A possible explanation,” Lina told her, and refused to say anything else despite Rhiannon’s wheedling. She also refused to leave the carriage and return to their own, seemingly content to remain watching the station master’s bungling interrogation of the revived prisoner, who struggled, cursed, and kicked the constable at intervals.

Rhiannon became aware of the distinct, acrid smell of smoke hanging in the air. It seemed stronger than before.

“A hayrick on fire,” Lina said in answer to her unspoken question, “in a field located at a curve in the railroad tracks a few miles from Wickworth. You were asleep, my dear,” she added with a soft glance, “and looked so peaceful, so content, I did not wish to wake you despite knowing how much you crave melodramatic spectacle.”

Rhiannon shrugged. “I doubt a hayrick in flames is very impressive.”

“No doubt some feel that way. To others, the sight may be both attraction and distraction. Ah! Here is the good doctor,” Lina said, hailing Flavell when he came into view. “Have you succeeded, sir? Have you located it?”

“Yes,” Flavell replied with evident satisfaction. “Precisely where you … oh, but you know that already,” he said, cutting a glance at Rhiannon after Lina’s warning cough.

“Thank you, sir. Now, shall we solve the mysterious death of this lady?”

“I am entirely in agreement. Only do not judge our station master Brown too harshly, milady. He does his duty to the best of his abilities.”

Lina agreed. “Naturally, doctor, I will be guided by you in this matter. Now let us beard Brown before he does his reputation – and that of the village – irreparable damage.” She turned to address Brown, the constable, and the highly aggrieved prisoner. “Brown! Yes, you, sir. That man did not commit murder. He is innocent. Were I you, I would release him at once with a handsome apology.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” Brown protested, fairly swollen with indignation. “He’s got one of those pickaxes in his bag. I’m sure he killed that poor lady, and so help me God,” he went on, giving the unfortunate prisoner a tooth-rattling shake, “I’ll have a confession!”

“I’m a stonemason, not a bloody quarryman,” the man howled, twisting in the constable’s grip, “and that’s not a pickaxe, ‘tis a stone hammer, you fool!”

“Mr. Brown, we can take you to the real killer,” Lina said.

“Eh? What’s this, madame?” Brown eyed her suspiciously.

“To confirm the veracity of my claim, I turn to Dr. Flavell, who is known to you.”

“It’s true, Jacob. I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes,” Flavell said, putting a hand on Brown’s shoulder. “It’s incontrovertible. Your man here is innocent of the crime.” The station master stared at him in equal parts hope and dread, and finally, he deflated.

“I trust you as I trust none other, doctor,” Brown said, motioning for the constable to release the prisoner. “Take me to the vicious animal who struck the lady down.”

Rhiannon did not miss the faint quirking at the corners of Lina’s mouth. Something amused her, but what?

“Without delay, Jacob. Follow me.”

Rhiannon fell behind the men, walking side by side with Lina. “Where are we going?”

“Do not spoil the surprise, my dear,” Lina replied.

The doctor led the group away from the tracks to a pony trap, and invited them to take seats. Brown helped Lina and Rhiannon climb aboard. Within moments, a touch of the whip set the sturdy horse leaning into the traces, carrying them from the station at a quick clip. The journey down the road was not long, merely a few miles from Wickworth.

Remembering what Lina had told her earlier, Rhiannon kept watch for a burning hayrick. When the trap came within sight of a large cattle cart stopped quite close to the railroad tracks, the doctor slowed the vehicle, coaxing the horse to come to a halt.

“Here we are,” he said, climbing off the driver’s seat.

Brown stared at the bulls in the cart. “Is this a joke, doctor?”

“No indeed, Jacob. Come along, and all will be made clear.”

At the cattle cart, Lina asked Flavell, “Which one is it?”

He pointed at a large red bull with a splash of white on its broad forehead. The bull’s face was stained on one side with dark brown, almost black trickles that seemed to have come from its horn, similarly stained. Flies crawled over the darkness, irritating the bull, who kept shaking its head and trying to rub its face on its neighbor’s shoulder.

“Is the animal ill? A disease?” Brown asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Perhaps this will aid your understanding,” Lina said, revealing an ivory colored fragment in the palm of her hand. “I took this from the floor of the Number Two first-class carriage.”

“What is it?” Rhiannon asked.

Standing on tiptoe and ignoring Rhiannon’s furious hiss of disapproval, Lina reached towards the red bull. She lifted the fragment to the tip of its stained horn … and it fitted perfectly.

Brown made spluttering noises.

Flavell nodded.

Rhiannon could scarcely believe the implications of what she’d just seen.

“I believe the sequence of events to be thus,” Lina began. “Our victim – let us refer to her as Miss X for lack of a proper surname – was alone in her carriage when she spied the smoke from the hayrick which had caught fire. Like many people bored with a long journey, she welcomed the distraction. Lowering the window, she thrust her head outside to obtain the best view of the conflagration, particularly since the train slowed at that point to take the curve.”

A sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach told Rhiannon what was coming next.

“Unfortunately, in her enthusiasm, she failed to notice the cattle cart, which the drovers abandoned in their haste to be diverted by the same sight which attracted the attention of Miss X. As the train accelerated past the curve, the bull’s horn struck Miss X in the side of her head, dealing a fatal blow before being wrenched out as the train continued on its way. The tip of the horn broke off. I suppose the initial gush of blood drove it from the wound.”

Brown had turned a trifle pale. “So I … I mean, the bull’s face … the flies …”

“That is Miss X’s blood, I assure you. A sad and terrible tragedy, but certainly not a crime,” Lina said, spreading her hands apart. “Dr. Flavell has kindly volunteered to take charge of the body and the task of identifying the young lady and notifying her relations.”

“Oh.” Brown did not seem very capable of speech. He stared at the bull and the buzzing flies, and then his horrified gaze turned on Lina.

“Then our journey to Brighton is no further impeded and we may we may continue on our way, but only, my dear,” Lina said, giving Rhiannon a stern glance, “if you give me your word that the carriage window stays up at all times, regardless of whatever sights may tempt you otherwise!”

Recalling the blood, the sightless eyes, and the fist-sized hole in the victim’s head, Rhiannon agreed without a single thought of protest.